Denied to all but Ghosts (25 page)

“It’s Cavendish!” she exclaimed with a
mixture of fright and confusion. Slingsby scrutinised the phone’s
display as though his close attention would lend something to the
situation. He shrugged.

“Better answer, I suppose.”

“No way!” she whispered in a manner to
suggest that Cavendish might be listening. Slingsby scowled,
grabbed the phone and pressed the green button to accept the call
as Emily clasped the separate halves of her blouse together. He
thrust the phone back in her hand and Emily could hear an enquiring
voice coming from the phone, which she instinctively knew, was not
the loathsome Cavendish.

“Hello?” she asked tentatively.

“Is that Dr Spelman?”

“Speaking.”

“Hi, it’s Tom Beckett.”

“Hello, Mr Beckett.”

“Ah, I hope you don’t mind, ah, but I was
wondering, well I was going to suggest, if it’s all right with you,
I mean I don’t want to cause offence or anything...”

“Get to the point, Mr Beckett.”

“Marchel said he has something to show you
that might offer some recompense for this afternoon. I think he is
regretting his, ah, his ah, his choice of words,” stammered
Beckett.

Emily did not reply at once, she looked to
Slingsby who was listening to the conversation. Slingsby was
grinning and nodding his head at Emily, indicating that she should
encourage Beckett to continue.

“I thought Herr Cavendish was going to be
elsewhere?” she asked of Beckett.

“He is. I’m afraid he has asked me to show
you something. I’ve a table booked in the restaurant for seven if
you are remotely interested, of course I completely understand if
you...” Slingsby was grinning ear to ear and nodding franticly at
Emily to agree to the invitation.

“Okay, Tom. I’ll see you at seven.”

“Oh, right, good. I’ll see you then.
Bye.”

Slingsby clapped his hands and gave a whoop
of delight.

“Hell girl, couldn’t have planned things
better myself! Who says fortune doesn’t favour the brave!” Emily
smiled back wanly at the journalist, for in truth, she didn’t
really know what she was smiling about.

It was only as she took a bath that Emily
regained her composure following her meeting with Cavendish. She
slowly yielded to the reality of what Slingsby had proposed. The
treacherous onset of doubt began to creep in. Later, as Slingsby
left the room to go down for a smoke, she lay on the bed draped in
a white towel and stared blankly out of the window at nothing in
particular.

Emily was not a great fan of the theatre. Her
only real connection to Shakespeare had been at school, and there
she studied ‘Macbeth’. Yet despite her lack of interest, she could
not help drawing comparisons between her own predicament and that
of the lead character in the ‘Scottish Play’, despite the gender
reversal. Like the anti-hero of the play she was, at the outset,
the one ‘not without ambition’ and she did indeed ‘lack the illness
which should attend it’.

She ruminated upon her relationship with
Slingsby. There was undoubtedly a strong sexual attraction on her
behalf but that passion, she considered, had already faded.
Initially he had allowed her to be the dominant player, but lately
she realised it was he who was actually calling the shots. Her
flaming desire to claim the sword and make a name in the academic
world had begun to cool, until she had seen the blade. Then the
flames of hopes and dreams had been fanned anew to restore her
faith in their dubious project only to be shattered by Cavendish’s
abusive slamming of the door in her face.

However, she now wished she had not been so
hasty in revealing her feelings to Slingsby after her return from
the crypt. He had latched onto her anger so swiftly; it had been so
easy for him to get her to agree with his plan. She did not want to
hurt Thomas Beckett; he seemed a decent enough man even if he did
associate with the reptilian Cavendish. Slingsby’s plan was so
simple, to seduce Thomas Beckett, lure him to his room where they
presumed the blade would be kept, let the drug do its work and take
the sword and flee to Slingsby’s waiting car and be away before
anyone realised the sword was missing.

Cavendish frightened her, quite why, she was
unsure. There was something hidden deeper beneath that vague,
polite exterior. Perhaps gangsters used the same guise. Perhaps the
man in Chicago smiled politely before ordering the St Valentine’s
Day massacre. Yet Beckett was a different prospect. He was not
repellent to her as Cavendish was, in fact, in a different time and
place she might find him highly desirable, he had a certain
virtuousness couched beneath his verbal armour that she found
refreshing.

She bit her bottom lip as she toyed with her
doubts. All she had to do was administer the drug before going to
his room and so gain access to the sword. But how long did the drug
take to cause the unconsciousness required?

She also concerned herself with possible
reprisals; her imagination flew away with her at times. Did she
over exaggerate the threat of an outraged Cavendish? Would he come
after her to exact his revenge? Slingsby assured her that such
things did not happen in the real world. After all, they were not
dealing with an organised crime syndicate, but an eccentric
collector of rare artefacts who realised he was operating outside
the law. Once they went public with their find, then perhaps they
could be reconciled with the sword’s owner? When he was present,
Slingsby’s arguments were always persuasive, yet when she was alone
the world did not seem quite so straightforward or benevolent.

The door opened and Slingsby strutted in, she
could immediately smell the cigarette he had just smoked on his
breath. He leant over and kissed her hard on the lips and she
recalled the passion he had once instilled in her. Why had she have
given herself to this ‘bad boy’? Had making the grade in the
academic world come to this. Could everything be justified by her
ambition? She knew the answer but now the die was cast.

“It’s about time you got ready, babe,” said
Slingsby. As she stood up to walk to the dressing table to apply
her makeup, he grabbed the back of her towel and tugged it sharply.
The wrenched towel spun her to face the journalist, who let the
towel fall to the floor. She fought to control the impulse to cover
herself with her hands; she felt a surge of anger, which she hoped,
did not manifest itself physically.

“Jesus girl, I’m beginning to think I might
lock you in and keep you all to myself. I’m not sure this Beckett
should get a good eyeful of my Emily.” Slingsby became excited
picturing Emily seducing Beckett. She gave a phony laugh as he
pulled her towards him and fell into his excited embrace.

“Anything and everything is possible,” he
whispered as he kissed her neck. She thought she heard herself
reply with the words of Lady Macbeth, “if it were done when ‘tis
done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly.”

Thomas Beckett waited nervously at the
restaurant table, toying with the cuff buttons of his blue shirt
for the want of anything better to do.

The restaurant staff had entered into the
spirit of the weekend by decorating the room in an old-fashioned
Halloween style. Witches’ brooms stood idly by, black cats and
pointed hats strategically littered the restaurant, whilst various
runes and hexes adorned the walls. For Beckett, the room had an
unsettling ambience he associated with the ill-advised pursuit of
trying to celebrate Christmas in August.

A young waitress, wearing a tight white top
and short black skirt approached Beckett as he sat forlornly at his
table for two. She had often witnessed similar scenes played out,
the refreshingly modest and handsome man had earlier been sitting
alone in the bar, casting frequent glances at his watch before
finally deciding to head for the restaurant. She wondered, from a
professional viewpoint, if there was anything sadder than dining
alone after you had been stood-up.

“Are you ready to order, Sir?” asked the
freckled faced redheaded waitress. Beckett glanced at his Rolex; it
was approaching a quarter to eight.

“Another five minutes?” asked Beckett
apologetically. The redhead smiled and was about to walk away when
Beckett added, “Miss, a bottle of house white wouldn’t go amiss
though.” The girl acknowledged his order with a warm smile; he
might as well drown his sorrows.

“My name’s Michelle,” she said as she left
the dining room to walk through the reception area. Here she caught
sight of a woman in a red woollen coat walking reluctantly into the
hotel.

Michelle considered the woman’s appearance.
Her hair had been spoilt by the incessant drizzle, but being simply
styled down past her shoulders, there was no real damage done. She
assessed the woman’s make-up, it showed a skilful application of
subtle colours and shades and the girl had to concede she looked
very pretty, perhaps even beautiful, bearing in mind she was an
‘older woman’. Michelle gamely concluded that this woman was her
man’s date and immediately felt contempt for the selfish woman for
having kept him waiting so long. What Michelle did not know was
that this woman had been standing under the cover of a nearby
building for the past half an hour, attempting to garner the
courage to make an appearance at all.

“Can I help you, Madam?” Michelle asked of
Emily.

“Yes, thank you, I’m meeting someone for
dinner, I’m afraid I’m a little late,” Emily almost whispered.

“I think you’ll find him in the restaurant,
Madam, through there,” she pointed.

“Thank you very much,” said Emily politely.
She walked cautiously into the confined restaurant. Michelle
whispered under her breath.

“Bitch, you don’t deserve him!”

Emily found Beckett sitting alone in the
corner of the room beneath a mobile of twisted vines and ivy
suspended from the ceiling. It resembled a dream catcher, similar
to the one she had once hung above her bed, which had wretchedly
failed at its prescribed job of preventing her disturbing
nightmares.

The restaurant was full and Beckett looked
ill at ease alone in the crowded room. He stood as she approached
and clumsily offered his hand in greeting and accurately read her
hesitation before she lightly took his hand.

“Sorry I’m late, Mr Beckett. I got a bit tied
up,” explained Emily hurriedly as she took off her damp coat and
hung it on the back of her chair.

“Not a problem,” said Beckett, speaking off
the cuff.

Emily looked at him with a stony expression,
which Beckett countered with an apologetic, disarming smile. She
thought he had the cutest smile, it was the kind of smile that
could defuse the most difficult situation, and she guessed
correctly that he had cause to use it more than once.

Emily adjusted her white blouse as she took
her seat, drawing his attention to the swelling tailored cut of the
material.

“Have you been waiting long?” she asked
lightly by way of making conversation.

“Oh, no,” he replied, “I just got here.”

Michelle returned with Beckett’s bottle of
house white and he instantly regretted not having ordered something
a little classier. Why did he desire to impress Emily Spelman?
Michelle poured the wine for Beckett to try and he nodded his
uninformed approval, confirming the taste of a cheap chilled white
wine.

They ordered their food with an awkward
formal exchange of platitudes, agreeing only to take a main course.
Beckett was happy not to prolong his embarrassment and Emily
equally content not to delay the inevitable.

“I’d like to apologise, Tom,” she said
hurriedly.

“For what?” he replied automatically, knowing
full well what she had to apologise for.

“For what I said earlier, I’m sorry, I didn’t
mean it, I was...”

“It’s okay, things get said, I’m sure Marchel
didn’t mean all the things he said.” Emily’s silence conveyed her
rebuttal of Beckett’s statement. Beckett shrugged and smiled to
convey his understanding of her sentiments.

“So what have you to show me?” asked
Emily.

“Nothing,” conceded Beckett sheepishly as he
prepared himself to face her wrath.

“What do you mean, nothing?” He was surprised
by the lack of venom in her question and looked up from the
tablecloth to view his dinner guest’s expression. He wished he
possessed Cavendish’s adroit skill at reading facial inferences.
Her beauty blinded him although if he had to hazard a guess, he
decided that despite her mantle of self-assuredness there was
something else. That something was fear. However, he realised that
was a ridiculous notion. That was why Cavendish was a hard-hearted
inquisitor and he was an underemployed photographer.

“Look,” babbled Beckett as quickly as he
could, “Marchel regretted his choice of words. He asked me, no
coerced me, into ringing you, to get you here so that we, I, could
apologise properly. If you want to leave, it’s fine by me, I quite
understand. Sorry for what he put you through, it was wrong, and
I...”

“Tom,” interrupted Emily.

“Yes?”

“This is your role then?”

“What do mean?”

“I mean, that is why Cavendish likes having
you around. I’ve wondered ever since we first met what the hell
you’re doing with a slug like him. I see now, he offends and upsets
everyone he meets and leaves you to clear up the mess. You are the
yin to his yang.”

“Well, I suppose that’s better than being the
Pinky to his Perky.”

Emily laughed; she could not remember the
last time she laughed innocently, without malice. Yes she could, it
was the night of the meal when she had first met Tom. She dismissed
the recurring notion that here was the man she unwittingly agreed
to drug.